His face remains blank, so I decide to have a little fun with him. "You have no idea where that is, do you?"
He straightens. "Of course I do."
"Okay, tell me."
He deflates, circles his fingers along the base of his wine glass, and looks out the window. "It's, you know, near the, uh… A little left of that other country in Eastern, no, wait, Western… Fine. I have no clue."
I grin. "Thought so."
"You were enjoying that, weren't you?"
"I was." I pick up the salad bowl and take it over to the dining table because yes, this yacht has a separate dining room. As I brush past him, I look into his eyes. "Best show I've seen in a while. A little disappointed you didn't go on with it. But perhaps Australian men don't have stamina?"
His brow lifts. "And Montanaian men do?"
I move closer until there's only a salad bowl's distance between our chests. "We do… Among other things."
I hold his gaze a moment longer, then I slip into the dining room.
6
Clayton
Is that…
Was he?…
Did Vaughn just flirt with me?
I'm still staring in the direction of the dining room when he returns for the rest of the meal, acting as if nothing happened.
Because nothing probably did happen. Because maybe in whatever part of the world Montanaia is located in, men teasing other men is a normal thing. I mean, in Europe, men kiss each other, which is something Aussie men definitely do not do. It's probably a cross-cultural, crossed-wires thing.
But whatever it was, it's left me too tongue-tied to ask if I can do anything to help until Vaughn has the meal fully laid out and Mabel is gurgling softly, gazing up at the ceiling lights in a portable bassinet beside the table.
"This looks and smells amazing," I say as we take our seats. "When did you learn to cook?"
He fills his plate as he answers, "My grandmother. We were close. She was an exceptional chef."
"I see."
I cut into the tender steak and change the topic to, of all fucking things, the weather. We chitchat about the killer humidity, how nice it is that the water is warm enough to swim in almost year-round, some of the effects the changing climate is having on the reef.
I notice Vaughn has a 'clean' way of talking. He says just enough to keep the conversation going, but he never divulges too much. He also seems to prefer to respond, rather than initiate a new topic himself.
Or, again, it could be a cultural thing. I have an American friend who always makes fun of the way Aussies speak because, according to her, we talk so fast and mumble so much she can't understand half of what we say. And we always interrupt and talk over one another. Apparently Americans think that's a no-no.
We're chitchatting away nicely enough when Vaughn rests his elbows along the edge of the table and says, "I suppose you have some questions."
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't," I reply, lowering my knife and fork.
"What would you like to know?"
"Hmm."
I wipe the corners of my mouth. It seems like a genuine invitation, but at the same time, I don't want to overreach. Every bit of information I've gleaned from Rove and Leo these past few weeks has only opened up even more questions.
Who was he running from? What happened to Mabel's mother? Why did he choose this spot to hide out?And now I have a brand-new question to add to the ever-growing list—where the hell is Montanaia?
